


No More Roads

by delgaserasca



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Adultery, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7285036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes quiet here, sometimes so still, as though the earth isn't spinning away beneath your feet; sometimes too much of an illusion, and you spin off instead." Megan in retrograde.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Subtitle is from Nelly Furtado's All Good Things (Come to an End).

“I didn’t go back. But you know, things got a little crazy and I had a wake-up call, and I had to decide which way the rest of my life was gonna go.”  
“Yeah, you ever miss crazy?”  
“Sixteen and waking up every day free, having no idea where the day was gonna take me? Yeah, I miss it.”  
**— Megan and Crystal Hoyle, 3x02, _Two Daughters_.**  
  
  


» travelling, I only stop at exits

  


 Press the pedal down as far as you'll let yourself go, and speed off, faster than you know you should. It's called abandonment, and you're revelling in it. You abandon yourself. After everyone who’s done the same, it's only fair that you get your turn. You hate to drive, though you love your cars; always have, and this road and this wheel are but a means to an end. _Where next, where next_ , those words always running through your head, and you're always sixteen years old, just come off that rusting old bus, running a hand through your hair as you look up into the dusty sun. You ran into Los Angeles the way you always ran into trouble - headfirst, eyes shut, feeling the air snap against your face.  


 (Colby puts his hand on your shoulder, brings you back to the here and now - _you leaving, or you staying here?_ \- and the question is innocent enough on the surface, but you can feel the subtext as sharp as that summer breeze so long ago. _I'm coming_ , you say, _I'm ready_ , and Amita's eyes follow you all the way to Granger's car.)  


 That familiar tingle reaches its way down your spine with an arching arm, digging into your back and running all across your skin in nervous circles. Colby keeps his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, and you remember the bus driver who ignored your all-too-fake ID, and let you on board after giving you a once-over with his roving eyes, _damn, chica, you could get a guy to take you any place_ , and Moira's voice is just as much of a sting now as it was then - _you turning johns now?_ \- No, you'd say, no, no, no, it's just a road, you said, it's just the space between A and B. (Oh, the shortest distance, that's what Charlie would say, but you can't think of Charlie, not now, when the guilt is strongest. They just tossed him straight up into the sky, but, you think, gravity applies to you, so you live by earth rules - _just threw him into the fucking sky_.) Just a road, a means to an end, and three days later you're holed up with Duke and Melody, your nose bruised as you inhale and knock your head back, a too-slim wrist at your nostrils.  


 You recognise this source-less resentment, and you lock it up, but it gets out because you can't guard the door all the time. Asleep on duty, that's the sign - and Colby is looking at you, looking at the road, driving left, not right, and you're not going home. His eyes are a ghost and a premonition, both memory and anticipation, and all you can think is once upon a time you wore torn jeans, ate stale food and lived under the bridge you're driving over. Everyone drove over you, that's why you left home. Something to be thankful for, the place that taught you to stand up when you were knocked down, the place that told you to ignore the grazes on your palms and on your knees, and to keep fucking walking as though your life depended on it. And if it did - if you really had to keep going, just to keep breathing, just to stay warm and alive - then don't walk, run. Run until the wind cuts your lungs, until your skin is raw - until your lungs bleed and you can't think to breathe, all those echoes ringing in your ears.  


 Colby slams the door to his four-by-four, but you don't move. He's in the house by the time you think to unbuckle your belt - when did you fasten the damn thing, anyway? - and the path is familiar beneath your shoes. Three steps to the door, push it open with your fingers, and then wait on the threshold for the invitation. You wait to be asked in because you're a lot of things, but you’re not ill-bred. You've always kept your politeness, so much which Duke would laugh at you, and Melody stole your scarf that one night when they wouldn't let you into the bunker, so you woke up stuck to the sidewalk like dead meat, too cold to move, and the winter air biting at your face. Door's open, no-one's home, except you just saw Colby walk in, and you feel stupid left stranded on the doorstep. He never makes things easy. You see him in the kitchen, looking at you from down the hall, and you wait, wait, wait (clock's ticking somewhere in the house, and it makes you wonder, because Colby's a tech-time guy; everything he owns is digital. Maybe it's a clock, maybe it's your pulse, but you can feel it beating time out of the winding distance from him to you—) until he nods, just once, and you step into the house, closing the door firmly behind you.  


 Colby likes his women dirty. Don't know why this never crossed your mind before, but it does right then when you're leaning against the door, stretching time between your teeth, trying to make a decision - if, indeed, there's a decision to be made. You don't know. You can't remember why you're here.  


 (Colby likes his women _dirty_ , not soiled or broken, but rough enough around the edges to cut into him and leave a mark.)  


 Oh, this year, this year, and the way it led you on, and the way you held on to it because that's what people expected of you. Stay strong, stay the course - there's Ian Edgerton watching everything that you do and you think, I could take him, _I could take you_ , and your palms itch to reach out and grab him by his shirt. The memory of that need, biting away at the nape of your neck, comes to you post-hoc when you're walking with Larry, and you reach out to touch his face instead, to anchor yourself by this little, little man with his great big heart. Sometimes quiet here, sometimes so still, as though the earth isn't spinning away beneath your feet; sometimes too much of an illusion, and you spin off instead. Trying to stay fixed, to maintain your inertia, it takes so much effort when you can feel the ground pushing up to be away from itself, the wall solid at your back and rockets launching into space whilst you're stuck in a time warp - are you here, now, or there, with them, popping pharms as though your every breath depends on that next hit. This is everything you've ever wanted, all these doors in front of you, all these roads, and you block them off, compulsively turning keys in locks and throwing them away. Then there's this year and this summer, and all the tests you passed the first time return as second-time failures; and Colby's right in front of you now, and you don't dare to breathe for what will come next.  


 Guilt's heavier now, and it's incomprehensible to you that you should feel this way now that Larry's finally taken off, as though his not being able to defend himself makes you reluctant to take the easy way out. You look for the punishment to your crime, all that cause and effect tying you up in knots, binding your wrists - and off you go again, another memory, another trap that you walked straight into, sitting on the floor of that motel room, spitting out your teeth just to get her to pay attention. The point was that you'd made your decision, pulled yourself up out of that gutter, no matter that your head's still there, no matter that you're faking it - hell, you're game with your poker face so far that you don't know the difference between one and the other - you could be breaking and your face would remain your mask because dammit, you were over your childhood crises. You learned the signals a long time ago; they tell you when to attack and when to keep your distance. Granger's a red light if ever you saw one, and he comes to you hotly, urgently, singeing your skin on the approach. It's five different levels of fucked up but your little man is out in orbit, and you're doing a dirty double-step with the guy you work with. Precious.  


 You blame Crystal Hoyle; you blame the summer heat that wound its way into your head, the sweat trickling down your back, making your hair stick to your skin, wrists chafing against the ties as she paced back and forth across the small room. Anger fits you like a second skin, so difficult to tell if it was you or if it was her, and which was the greater wronged in that room? Or did it even matter? Crystal, your other self, your mirror-verse, and if you could have held onto her, then you would have made a grab for her hands and run all the way down that road, all the way through the city. Stable and unstable, one or other because you can't have both, these bizarre antitheses that can't exist alone, but can't exist together; he says it's oil to water, dominance and submission, one too dense, and one too versatile, coming to a compromise in the middle distance. You call it mirroring, and he sees the world in inverse but, but— _she's more like me than I can even_ (can't think to breathe, one hand on your hip, his knee between your legs, the other hand in your hair, and you want him to pull at you until it hurts, wonder if he'll bite your lip and leave a bruise?) This is familiar territory. These are foreign waters.  


 (You wanted Ian to throw you up against the wall, to slide his hand over your cheek and down, down, between your legs; you kissed Larry with wet eyes and moist cheeks, and you walked away, straight into Colby's waiting arms. He found you, he took you home and laid you down. Larry's ten paces behind you and soaring fifty leagues up into the air; Colby keeps his hands on your hips, his palms flat, and he holds you down. He took you home and made you new. You left the next morning with a bruise on your collarbone, and raw thighs.)  


  He's restless and irritable - they don't like it when you don't respond - and he wants something from you that you're not sure you can give anymore. Colby kisses you roughly, hand now cupping your face, palm to your jaw, his teeth pulling on your lower lip, forcing you to open your mouth. He pushes his tongue up against yours; you switch to breathing through your nose, and for whatever reason, you _notice_ this; it isn't an instinct; you force yourself to take in a breath. _Fuck_. You're fully up against the wall now, he breaks off for breath, pulls your hair out of the loose pigtails, looking at you the way your father used to - _what do you go around dressed like a five year old for?_ \- then he presses his thumb to your lips, and it's so kindly and sincere that you almost push him away. He licks his lips, whispers something that you miss under the rush of blood pounding through your ears. You stare at him, lips pursed; he could be a thousand miles away and you wouldn't know the difference.  


 More kisses, from your temple to your jaw, and his hands still pressing insistently against you; you moan involuntarily as he cups your breasts through your sweater, thumbs against your nipples; you shudder into his touch. He's asking you something, the rule is no talking, but he's asking you _for_ something and you don't know how to answer. Stand-off equates to an end stop, and the thought startles you into movement. You want this to go somewhere. If Granger backs down, the doors will close with no way out, and then you'll be stuck, just the way you were when your sisters left home, abandoning you to your parents' increasing possessiveness. You pull off your sweater, run a hand through your hair as Colby reaches for your zipper; it’s hardly romantic, but you didn’t come here for that, make a grab for his shirt, pulling him back for another kiss. Reach down, stroke the erection in his jeans, once, twice, a little harder; watch him curse, tense up and groan. His hands come back to your hips, you kick off your shoes and your jeans, and you jump, wrapping your legs around his waist: begin countdown. Larry won't give you this; Larry _can't_ give you this.  


 He always carries you, big girl that you are, and it’s like being lifted out of a war zone; you fumble with each others’ clothes, searching out wounds; Melody held your hand, Moira emptied your pockets for loose change – _Moira, she needs a fucking doctor_ – _dios mia, she need a fucking cab!_ \- and Colby must feel something in you because he’s direct when he strips you, buttons, zippers, tosses his shirt to one side (Duke took his and gave it to you; you shivered under the heap of coats and shirts and extra clothing, fever racing) and you shudder in a parody of withdrawal when he runs his teeth down your side. You tug his boxers over his erection, let him kick them off, and he fumbles with a condom wrapper whilst you reach back and undo your bra; but he’s kissing your shoulder, spreading your legs with his knee, pushing you onto your back again and you slide your hands up his chest, his face, into his hair. It’s the kiss of life, you think, you know, you remember Duke’s mouth on yours, bitter and laced with vodka as your friends revived you – hands on your sternum and you hold on as Colby gets his arm around your waist, lifting you into a sitting position, your head lolling backwards onto Moira’s shoulder as they try to get you to stand, and you still can’t figure out where you are.  


 All sensation intensified by need, all your senses primed and burning; salt on his throat, stubble scratching your chin; charcoal in your nose, burnt-out garbage for heat, and you think Duke might be burning Jimmy’s juice cartons. You nip the skin above Colby’s Adam’s apple and he growls, bringing you back into focus. You press your hand on his shoulder, he presses down on your hip, you push off the bed with your heel; he looks up at you through your bangs, tries to find your eyes – _look at me, come on, girl, look at me, look at me, fucking look at me_ – runs circles on your pelvis bone to the rhythm turning over in your head, and you hold your breath as you lower yourself onto him, gripping his cock at the base and steadying yourself, pausing, panting, and he keeps looking up at you, looking, looking until you’re seated and you stop, rest your forehead on his, eyes closed. You breathe heavily; he kisses your nose. Your back feels conspicuously bare, missing Moira curling up against you for heat, Jimmy’s wandering lips kissing your spine all the way down – _fuck_. You kiss Colby again, try to shake your mind free of debris, of rolling dust speeding down the highway, breeze in your hair as you chase your demons away. He shifts restlessly beneath you, _please, Megan_ — and you rock your hips, start up a slow rhythm, and you can feel him resisting the urge to push you back and take control.  


 For a moment, you’re looking up at Cassiopeia in the night sky, Jimmy’s fingers pushing insistently between your legs, slick and wet, licking a straight line from the hollow of your neck to your navel. Traffic runs riot on the open road, and the blood rush in your ears knocks you back—  


 —and your head hits the pillows, Colby’s hands beneath your thighs, and he thrusts into you repeatedly; you meet him beat for beat, feeling the bruises swell on your hipbone, unfurling in heat. He kisses you twice – once on the lips, once on the chin, and your fingers grip his hair, stretch down the expanse of his back, grip his buttocks; you trace his lips, he sucks one digit and then the next; you reach down between you and begin to stroke yourself in time with his thrusts. Tension begins to coil loosely in the pit of your stomach; Colby pushes you again, you trip off the sidewalk, and Melody pulls you back; you rub yourself in concentric circles, pressing a little harder each time. Colby is not hesitant, and you are not fragile; your eyes roll back in your head as he increases the pace; your muscles ache and tense; you look up and see the hospital lights flashing past as the ER doctors roll the gurney down the corridor; he reaches down to touch you and you suck in a breath, another, yes, another, yes, yes; you whisper lewdly into his ear. Your fingers leave impressions on his shoulder.  


 (You want to scratch him, mark your ground.)  


 The pressure is intense, curling, coiling inside your stomach, winding tighter and tighter, and Colby twists a little, thrusts again, and you feel yourself begin to come; feel that stress deep inside your abdomen, heat and a shiver of electricity, your thighs shaking until the dam breaks and the water hits your body in waves, one after the other, again, again, and you can’t think, can’t feel, just see that rocket launching off into darkness, your spaceman locked securely inside. Your orgasm tips him over and he shudders deep inside you, hard enough to hurt; you hiss tightly as he stills, panting against your forehead. You kiss him; try to catch your breath, your body sticking to his bed sheets. He rolls off you, bins the condom, rolls back and pulls you into his arms uncomfortably. You feel trapped. Guilty.  


 You think you sleep, dream of Californian highways and interstellar dust clouds, Moira tugging insistently on your hand in the hospital, praying for you to wake up. _Madre de dios, chica, you scared the holy shit outta me_ , and there’s little round welts on your wrists where she’d pressed the rosary beads into them. Jimmy drives you down the highway at six in the morning, windows cranked and some guy is playing country on the two-station radio, the same song you heard the night Larry took you out for dinner that first time, and you think you might throw up.  


 “It’s okay,” Colby whispers into your hair. “Megan? It’ll be alright,” and you cling to him a little tighter than before. _Don’t let him see you cry, dammit, don’t let him_ — but already you can hear his breaths becoming more even and in a couple of minutes, he’s fallen asleep. This is still running, you think, waving and drowning and running until you can’t feel your legs, just like now, under Colby’s weight, pinned down to a time and a place. You’re forced to think, forced to stay, and all you want to do is get away from yourself. Inertia and confinement; gravity, disparity; security, infidelity – you draw lines from one to the other, and your back hurts, your eyes are dry with tiredness. Sleep, sleep, close your eyes. Give in to the ache in your shoulder, loosen up your muscles; tuck your head under Colby’s chin and rest. Wait out the rest of the day, sleep. Hold on to yourself, let go of the worry. Sleep. 

  


**end.**  


**Author's Note:**

> Megan is wildly out of character here. Cool, calm, collected Megan exists only in canon otherwise I could never get her to do anything in fanfiction.


End file.
